The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  “I thought Ihsan said they covered themselves in sheep’s blood,” the older boy said with a frown.

  “They do that, too.”

  Brax held the bead up to one eye, then raised an eyebrow in Spar’s direction.

  “I don’t know,” the younger boy snapped at the unspoken question. “Maybe the color, maybe the ceramic. Does it matter? Just wear it.”

  “All right, all right.” Brax passed the cord over his neck, tucking the bead inside his jacket. “So where’s the other one?” he asked.

  Spar frowned questioningly at him.

  “The other bead,” he expanded. “You said Tanay gave you three?”

  “Oh. I wove it into Jaq’s collar.”

  Glancing back at the corner sentry box, Brax could just make out the dog’s large, red nose sticking out from the shadows. “Well, at least he has the sense to stay out of the rain. Can we please go in now? I doubt this thing’s gonna protect us from the cold.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Spar ...”

  “No. Not. Yet. There’s something you need to see.”

  He stared out at the strait, his eyes gone the more normal misty-white, staring until Brax began to tap his fingers against the rain-slicked battlements, then pointed suddenly.

  “There.”

  “Where?”

  “Just above the waves before Dovek-Hisar.”

  Brax squinted past his finger. In the distance, nearly invisible in the gray, driving rain, a silvery creature, almost like a fine flying insect, flitted back and forth above the waves.

  “What is it?”

  “A very special kind of spirit.”

  Brax frowned. “I thought the spirits couldn’t get anywhere near Gol-Beyaz,” he said.

  Spar made his standard one-shouldered shrug. “It isn’t near it, not really.”

  “Huh?”

  “It isn’t really in the actual world yet. Or maybe It’s not actually real Itself yet. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Just remember It.”

  He fell silent and, after a long time, Brax glanced over at him.

  “All right. Um, is that all? Can we go inside now?” he asked.

  His eyes slowly returning to their usual blue, Spar glanced up at the statue of Estavia before giving a weary nod. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

  Together they made their way back to where Jaq sat sentry, while out on the strait, the Godling made one final pass, then turned and sped up the Halic-Salmanak towards Gol-Bardak.

  On the hillside overlooking the Rus-Yuruk’s winter encampment, Graize watched as a great mass of spirits merged and flowed over the Berbat-Dunya in preparation for their yearly assault on the Gods’ wall of power. A change in the air caused his right pupil to contract suddenly and he turned to see the Godling streaking along the surface of the lake, sending up great spouts of water in Its wake. He raised one hand, and It immediately changed course and raced toward him. Spinning about his face, It tickled his mouth and nose with power, then shot upward into the air as another figure appeared above the narrow, winding path. As Danjel joined him on the edge, Graize stared thoughtfully down as the Godling dropped toward the encampment, giving Rayne’s yak’s tail standard, bobbing above the largest of the pitched tents below them, a hearty smack before spiraling up into the air again. It was getting impatient. Sucking up a tiny spirit that had latched itself to his upper lip, he grimaced. So was he, but the next move in the game was going to be tricky.

  Graize had ridden with Kursk’s kazakin all summer, harassing the shepherds and farmers from one village to another, leading the Warriors of Estavia on an increasingly enjoyable chase back and forth across the plains, then vanishing as autumn brought an end to the warring season. The winter had been a time to pause, regroup, eat, rest, mend cloth and leather, and learn the ways of his new people and their wyrdins from Timur and Danjel. Now, with spring so close the smell ‘of new, green earth invaded his dreams, it was time for the first move in the season’s new game. Laying each of his shells out in his mind’s eyes, he held up the pea.

  Turning to Danjel with a wide gaze, his uneven pupils almost completely obliterated by a fine, white mist, he gestured at the setting sun.

  “Drops of blood and gold,” he said, making his voice go thin and misty.

  Twirling a hawk fetish between finger and thumb, Danjel nodded. “Blood and gold feed the people,” he agreed absently.

  “Yes, and the people are hungry for action. Spring will be in nine days. In nine days we’ll feed that hunger.”

  “How?”

  In his mind, Graize set the pea under the first of his turtle shells. “By attacking Anavatan,” he answered.

  “What?” Danjel stared at the other wyrdin as if he’d gone finally, truly mad, while a nearby spirit took the opportunity to knock the fetish from his grip and send it spinning down to land at Graize’s feet.

  And now the shells began to move. “It’s time, kardos,” Graize said, retrieving the three-tied feathers and pressing them into the other wyrdin’s hand.

  “To attack the city of the Gods? To what purpose?”

  “To pay a debt.”

  “Whose debt?”

  “Ours.” Sucking the spirit into his mouth, Graize smiled as he tasted the hint of new spring growth in its power, then deliberately brought his attention back to the other wyrdin, making his words both clear and determined. “The Godling fought beside the Rus-Yuruk all year, asking little in return. Now It needs to bathe in the waters of Gol-Beyaz to build its strength or there can be no more fighting and the Yuruk will have lost a powerful weapon. It was the bargain we struck with It on that very first day, if you’ll remember.”

  Danjel cast him a suspicious look. “I remember that you said It would be satisfied with alliance.”

  “I did,” Graize agreed. “And now It needs Its allies to break It through the God-Wall of Anavatan to the shining lake of power, as It once helped them to break through the defenders at Serin-Koy,” he reminded him.

  “A wall of spears about a village is one thing; the God-Wall is something else again. That wall cannot be broken, kardos. ”

  “Yes, it can.” Closing his eyes, Graize lifted his face to the rising wind. “We shall attack the shining city,” he murmured. “My Godling will guide us and the spirits of the wild lands will hide us. We’ll flow over the walls like a river and the spirits will flow with us. The drops of blood and gold will fall upon the cobblestones and yield a harvest of power and death the like of which no one has ever seen.”

  “Horseshit,” Danjel spat. “The wall will hold as it always has.”

  “No, the wall is weak and it will crack.”

  “Even if it did, the Gods’ll see us coming a mile away”

  Graize laughed harshly. “Of course They will. Or He will anyway, the God of Shadows and Secrets. And a child of great power and potential will be born under the cover of Havo’s Dance.”

  The Godling flitted past him in Its insect seeming, and he raised one hand to stroke Its iridescent wings as It passed. “It’s what Incasa’s been waiting for, after all,” he continued. “So, it would be such a shame to disappoint Him. He wants the child to be born and so do we, but we have to make sure It’s born in our bed, not in His.”

  “Or Incasa wins the game,” he thought with a snarl “And only I win the game. That’s the most important rule.”

  Danjel shook his head. “Kursk will never agree. Neither will Timur.”

  “They will if we convince them of the merits of our plan.”

  “Our plan?”

  “Our plan, or did you think your future greatness would come in your dotage?”

  “Big word, kardos,” Danjel warned.

  “Maybe, but without the Godling’s strength the Yuruk will never beat the Warriors of Estavia, and your greatness will wither on the vine.”

  “My life will wither on the vine,” Danjel retorted. “It’s too risky. They’re too many. Most of us would never live to feed from your dr
ops of blood and gold.”

  “Yes, we would. Which one, which one, which one has the pea underneath it? Place your shine, place your shine.” Graize raised a hand to forestall Danjel’s next protest. “Remember, kardos, it’s just like a shell game, you make the mark look anywhere but where the pea really is. Last time we used a mass attack of kazakin. This time we only need a few, well chosen people. We’re not smashing the wall; we’re just cutting a tiny little hole through it to let a tiny little turtle shell inside. It’s worth the risk for the blood and the gold.” He leaned forward. “The Godling’s almost fully in the game now, kardos,” he said urgently, “almost in our very dangerous game. It only needs one more move to win, but to make it, It needs your help. Will you help it?”

  Which one has the pea? Place your shine.

  Tipping his head up, Danjel watched as the Godling turned and spun in the air, so close to a true form now that It resembled a fine, translucent dragonfly to almost anyone who knew how to look for It. “You’ll need a lot more of the details fleshed out to convince Kursk and Timur,” he warned.

  “And to convince you?”

  The other youth frowned, the green of his eyes paling to a fine, northern jade streaked with white. “With your few well chosen people I can see the stream,” he allowed, then he nodded. “Yes, I’ll help It.”

  “Then let’s go place our shine, Kardos.”

  Turning, Graize plunged down the hillside at once, the Godling trailing along behind him like a feathery comet. After a long, thoughtful pause, Danjel tucked the hawk fetish safely away in his belt pouch and followed them.

  16

  Preparations

  AT ESTAVIA-SARAYI, Usara’s Last Day dawned much as it had the year before, with a rising wind and a heavy, concealing bank of storm clouds to the west. As the first note of Havo’s Invocation filtered through the room’s latticed windows on a breath of cold wind, Brax painted the Battle God’s final protection along his right forearm and then gently wiped the brush clean before laying it across its white marble drying rack. As he turned, he caught sight of Kemal standing just inside the door holding a silk shirt draped across one arm. His brows drew down.

  “I can get dressed by myself,” he said, then scowled at both the petulant tone and the poorly masked quaver of nervousness underneath it. “Everyone’s treating me like some kind of invalid.”

  Behind him, a muffled snort from deep within the bed clothes made Spar’s opinion quite plain.

  “Yeah, well, who asked you?” he shot back. “This is all your fault, anyway.”

  “Today’s a special day,” Kemal replied as he came forward with a smile.

  “That’s what everyone else keeps saying. It’s no different than any other Oath Day.”

  “It’s entirely different,” Yashar noted from the doorway. “First Oaths are a time for family to celebrate together and, as you’re the only delinkos to ever take First Oaths at Estavia-Sarayi, everyone at Her temple is part of your family, and so everyone wants to celebrate with you.

  “I did warn you,” he added as Brax began a new protest, “ten thousand abayon, remember?”

  Brax just sighed.

  He’d been up since well before dawn. Tanay herself had come to wake him, handing him a cup of hot salap before leading him into Kemal and Yashar’s bathing room. It had been crowded with junior priests of Oristo and he’d almost balked at the door, but one firm palm in the small of his back had propelled him into their midst.

  An hour later, soaked, washed, shaved, trimmed, brushed, and covered in scented oils, he’d felt like a prize ram on market day. He’d said as much to Spar as he was being hustled back into their room and the younger boy’d just snickered at him before disappearing under the covers once more. Stretched across the bottom of the pallet, Jaq had lifted his head to peer reproachfully at him, then he, too, had lain back down again.

  “Great. Everyone gets to sleep in except me,” Brax had muttered.

  A muffled, “Serves you right,” had been Spar’s only response.

  Now, as Brax lifted his arms at Kemal’s gesture, he shivered slightly as the cold silk whispered across his skin, then tried, more or less successfully, not to back away as Yashar stood aside to allow half a dozen more junior priests into the room, their arms laden with armor, weapons, and, thankfully, food. He accepted a piece of dried kilic fish from a gold-painted plate, then shook his head with a snort.

  “What ?” Yashar asked as he caught up a dark blue woolen tunic from one of the priests, the twin swords of Cyan Company embroidered on the front gleaming in the lamplight.

  Brax just shrugged. “Nothing. I was just remembering something I told Spar a long time ago about the Warriors of Estavia.”

  “Something positive, I hope.”

  “Sort of. I guess. I think I missed some of it.” Lifting his arms again, Brax waited until Yashar had pulled the tunic over his head before stuffing the fish into his mouth.

  “Try not to get oil on your clothes,” Kemal admonished gently.

  “Sorry.” About to reach for another piece of kilic, Brax chose a hunk of bread dripping with honey instead, ignoring Kemal’s expression. He was hungry all the time these days and if people were going to shove food under his nose, he was going to eat it; he hadn’t had a moment’s peace to eat quietly in over a week. Taking a deep breath as Kemal wrapped a red linen belt around his waist; he caught a bit of honey as it dribbled toward his tunic with an expression of both guilt and annoyance equally mixed.

  Once the council had decided that he would take his oaths on Usara’s Last Day, the temple had exploded in a frenzy of activity. What little time Brax had off from the training yard had been taken up by lectures from Kaptin Liel’s battle-seers on the upcoming oath-takings, a series of painful pokings and proddings by Chief Healer Samlin’s physicians, and a steady barrage of downright bullying from Tanay’s servers. Peppered into the mix had been a constant stream of handling by the temple’s resident artisan-priests of Ystazia who’d descended on him like a swarm of panicking locusts. Every square inch of his body had been measured and remeasured by weavers, leather workers, embroiderers, and armorers until he’d wanted to scream at them to get away from him, but every time, one look from Spar had brought him up short.

  “This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? What you’ve been after ever since we arrived?”

  The younger boy had deliberately repeated his words on the battlements after Brax’s first and only bolt the day after the council’s decision.

  Brax had just glared at him in resentful silence.

  “So what’s the problem?” Spar had demanded again.

  The problem was that he still hated being stared at as much as he’d ever hated it, and he really hated being lectured at, poked, prodded, bullied, drawn on, pinched, and stuck with little pins.

  “I feel like I’m being measured up for a really expensive shroud,” he’d replied through gritted teeth after a half a dozen tailors had handed him over to as many metalworkers.

  “So next time drag us both to Havo-Sarayi instead of Estavia-Sarayi and they’ll just measure you up for a really expensive gardening apron.”

  “Next time.”

  Spar had turned an impatient glare in his direction. “Look, it isn’t all about you, all right? But it has to seem like it is on the surface. I told you things were happening, big things, scary things, things we might not want to happen. And if the people making them happen figure out that we’re on to them, they’ll make them happen someplace else where we’re not ready for them. But everyone’s ready for them here ‘cause they’ve all come together here for your oaths.”

  Brax had cocked his head to one side. “If that’s your first attempt at cryptic seer talk,” he’d noted, “it needs work.”

  Spar had glared at him. “Fine. You want it simple? You’re the distraction, I’m the lifter, everyone else is the mark.”

  “So, what’s the shine?”

  “Your pretty little outfit not all covered in blo
od, Warrior of Estavia.”

  His expression had dared Brax to make another joke, but after a moment, the older boy had just shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Now as Kemal held up a small iron-studded leather cuirass, he noted that at least the one benefit of all this attention was that everything he was about to put on fit him like a second skin. If the rest of Her warriors were treated with even half so much deference as this, it was no wonder they all carried themselves with so much pride. The cuirass settled across his shoulders with an ancient familiarity that made the breath catch in his throat and he closed his eyes, feeling the lightest whisper of a warm caress across his mind. When he opened them again, Yashar was smiling at him in understanding. He held up a pair of new sandals.

  “If you like, you can put these on yourself,” he offered graciously.

  Brax accepted them with a grimace.

  After he’d straightened, noting sourly that Yashar might have mentioned how hard it was to reach your feet while wearing a cuirass—and after Yashar had stopped laughing—his abayon together fitted the finely etched bronze greaves and vambraces onto his arms and legs, then Yashar wrapped a second old and worn leather belt around his waist as Kemal unwrapped a fine iron sword from a piece of heavily embroidered blue cloth. Brax raised an eyebrow at it as he slipped it into the plain leather scabbard that matched the belt.

  “Your village or home garrison provides your weapons when you go to your first posting,” Kemal explained. “This was the first sword I ever wore in Her temple when I was sixteen. It was Bayard’s before that. The scabbard, too. I thought you might be able to make some use of it.”

  “And speaking of home garrisons,” Yashar interrupted, digging Kemal in the ribs before Brax could answer. “The cloak pin.”

  “Ah, yes.” Accepting a heavy blue woolen cloak from a junior priest, Kemal draped it across Brax’s shoulders with a smile. “The traditional First Oath gift, given to all delinkon by their families to symbolize the underpinning of the future by the past, is a cloak pin fashioned to represent your home village or home garrison. We debated over the form it should take for a long time...”